


The Fakescape

by rhythmicroman



Category: Sanders Sides, Thomas Sanders, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Clones, Crushes, Death, Hanahaki Disease, Imaginary Friends, M/M, Murder, Painting, Roman's room is imaginary, Roman-centric, Stabbing, Swords, i guess?, might be mildly ooc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-03
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-23 08:56:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11986473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhythmicroman/pseuds/rhythmicroman
Summary: Nothing in Roman's room is real. He has to accept that.





	The Fakescape

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry
> 
> Literally someone mentioned Hanahaki Disease and I suddenly got the idea of Roman being fascinated with it and accidentally giving it to himself sometimes when he's in his room  
> But because I'm a sucker for Prinxiety, it's never really mentioned whether or not the Hanahaki is because of unrequited love or just because Roman likes flowers lmao
> 
> Fake-Virgil is OOC because he's not real Virgil. Roman is just a little emotional.

His heart aches as he paints another person.

A prince, just like him, but clothed in black instead of white – his hair falls over his eyes darkly and Roman’s fingers move jerkily as he paints on the details.

Smudges under his eyes, paleness in his skin, those pretty brown eyes – then he snaps his fingers, and the foreign prince comes to life, and those pretty eyes darken with ill-veiled hatred.

Roman’s fingertips graze his own throat as he feels himself choke a little. He curses his creativity for the words filling his head and the petals clogging his throat with lovesick fear, as he curls his tongue painfully around words he’ll never say.

“I’m not real.” Fake-Virgil says suddenly, staring at him again with those burning eyes. “I’ll never be real, Roman. You should stop doing this.”

Roman nods in acknowledgement. “I know,” he chokes out. He knows alright. He’s done this a thousand times – played pretend in the safety of his own room, fears only strengthening as his illustrated companion repeats time and time again how he’s wasting his time.

“But you look just like him,” he mutters, and reaches out to touch his cheek – Fake-Virgil catches his hand, and shakes his head, sighing softly.

“You know I’m not real, Ro. You need to let go of me one day.”

He’s getting choked up again, petals filling his throat. He splutters out a cough and one or two shimmering petals rain out. Fake-Virgil doesn’t stop staring.

“You’re going to die, Ro. I’m not real. It’s not real. Close your eyes and let it go. Wash it away.”

“Can’t,” talking is difficult. The petals are growing to flowers and they’re filling his mouth, brushing the backs of his teeth and pressing against the soft insides of his cheeks. “I can’t-“

“Roman.”

He looks up. He forgot how good he was at painting his copycat – from this angle, Fake looked exactly like Virgil. His eyes burned with some mixture of the sunlight and his tears.

Fake-Virgil reaches out and takes his hand, and smiles sadly at him. “Roman, I need you to kill me, okay?”

“W-What…? N-No, I can’t-“

“Roman.” His voice is harsher now. “You don’t have a choice. Either you kill me, or you choke to death on your own emotions. You only have two options, Roman.”

He’s shaking his head, but Virgil’s hand guides his to the hilt of his sword at his waist, curling his fingers around it and unsheathing it slowly, never looking down from Roman’s eyes. He presses the blade against his chest, right where his heart is.

“I’m going to fade away, okay? Like when you pluck the flowers, or cut the trees. I’m nothing but your imagination, Roman.”

Roman is whimpering, hand shaking as he holds the hilt of his sword and hesitantly wraps his other hand around it too. Virgil is smiling.

“It’s okay, Roman. Real-Virgil will be okay.”

He breathes in, and looks up at Virgil – no, Fake-Virgil – with teary eyes, gently inching his sword forwards. The copycat doesn’t even flinch as the blade touches it, simply smiling and staring.

“Sorry,” he says quickly, and darts forwards, thrusting the blade through the copycat’s chest.

Fake-Virgil smiles, then washes away, like paint in the rain – and the petals come tumbling out of Roman’s mouth, as he leans over the space where the imaginary prince used to stand.


End file.
